


Contrapposto

by reginalds



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Duro is alive and well and I love him, F/M, M/M, Tagged as teen for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginalds/pseuds/reginalds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all go for coffee after the class, and Agron feels off balance the entire time, still a little self-conscious from the whole taking his clothes off to be scrutinized by strangers thing, and the way Castus sits beside Nasir and name drops Rousseau and Dubuffet with ease. They lose Agron the second they start talking about art, but he stays because Nasir talks with his hands when he’s passionate about something, and he keeps looking at Agron like if he smiles enough at Agron he’ll understand the argument Nasir is making about colour theory. (He doesn’t, but he smiles back, every time.)</p><p>The last time Agron models for the class he may or may not hit the gym the day before, and avoid carbs before heading to the art studio.</p><p>“This is a disturbing new development in your infatuation with this guy,” Duro says, when Agron declines a slice of pepperoni pizza. “I may need to meet him.”</p><p>Agron just throws a slice of cantaloupe at his brother’s face and heads to the bus stop to catch the bus to campus.</p><p>(modern, university!AU with nude modelling)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrapposto

“I’m sorry,” Agron says, letting the free weights he’d been lifting drop onto the mat in the gym. “You’re doing what?” 

Crixus glares, and Spartacus, who is stretched out on the mat, recovering from a set of crunches, kicks at Agron’s ankle. “Modelling,” Crixus bites out. “Naevia said that her life drawing class is desperate for male models.” 

“ _Nude_ models,” Agron emphasizes, and Crixus ignores him. 

“They pay you thirty bucks an hour,” he says, and Spartacus looks up, suddenly interested. “Thirty bucks an hour to stand still.” 

Spartacus makes the face he always makes when he’s seriously considering something, and Agron frowns. “Yeah, but what happens if you, you know…” He gestures vaguely around the area of his crotch, and Crixus sighs. 

“It’s art, not pornography. I find it meditative.” 

“And,” Spartacus says, pushing himself to his feet. “It would be beer money.” 

Which is a damn good argument, because Spartacus publishes a bi-monthly anarcho-feminist zine that he writes, illustrates, and assembles in his room. He refuses to charge for it, and as a result is consistently broke. 

Agron is his editor, which means he proofreads things sometimes, but mostly provides support and coffee when Spartacus pulls all-nighters, and goes for spare printer cartridges when the printer jams in the middle of printing the essay Spartacus wrote comparing contemporary rape culture and Samuel Richardson’s eighteenth-century novel _Clarissa_. He also stands and looks intimidating when Spartacus passes the zine out on the quad, and glares at people when they throw it away the second Spartacus isn’t looking. 

Spartacus pays him in beer and his ‘eternal fucking gratitude, seriously Agron, I think I love you’. It’s a pretty good gig, except for the part where Spartacus is almost always broke, so there’s usually a lot more gratitude than free beer. 

“Beer money,” Agron says, bumping fists with Spartacus. “I’m in.” 

Crixus nods, already halfway through another set of crunches. “I’ll text you the details.” 

Spartacus waves and leaves, already late for his seminar, and Agron drags himself to the showers. He showers quickly, and dresses, fist-pumping when he checks his phone and sees that he has just enough time left to swing by the café on the edge of campus and grab a coffee before his lecture. 

The café is secretly Agron’s favourite place on campus. It’s endearingly hip, with squashy armchairs that are perfect for napping in when the weather gets chilly, and a steady stream of folky, indie music, that Agron grudgingly admits is better for getting work done than his beloved metal records. 

He tugs a beanie over his damp hair before walking in, breaking into a grin when he sees that Naevia is manning the espresso machine. 

Naevia is Crixus’ girlfriend: pint-sized and fiery. Agron has told her on numerous, drunken occasions, that if he liked girls, he would like Naevia, which always earns him a kiss on the cheek from her, and a punch in the solar plexus from Crixus. 

She also makes a mean latte, and doesn’t tease him too much when he asks for hazelnut syrup and whipped cream on it. 

“Hey, babe.” He leans over the counter to press a kiss to her cheek, and flicks at her eyebrow, where she’s got a few flecks of plaster, probably from one of her pottery classes. 

“Thanks, sweetie,” she tells him, rubbing it off, and asks: “Latte?” 

“Yes, please.” He leans against the counter while she thumps the coffee machine heartily and coaxes a couple shots of espresso out of it to make his drink. 

“Crixus told me that you and Spartacus are going to model for my life-drawing class,” Naevia says, while she waits for the milk to steam, and he fumbles for his wallet to pay her. 

“You excited to see the show?” Agron asks, waggling his eyebrows at her, and she huffs. 

“Hardly. I use Crixus as a model when I can’t get into the studio.” 

Agron makes a face. “That… is something that I did not need to know.” 

Naevia smirks at him. “It should be interesting though,” she says, “to see if you can stay still for so long.” 

Agron aims a half-hearted punch at her shoulder that she deflects easily. “You may want to wear a pride flag, or something, though,” she muses, pushing his latte over the counter to him. “Most of the models we get are middle-aged and paunchy. Some of the girls in the class may get a little over-excited.” 

Agron salutes her with his coffee cup. “Gotcha. Maybe I’ll break out the ass-less chaps.” 

Naevia snorts. “You’re going to be so fucking horrible at this.” 

Agron sticks his tongue out at her and checks the time, waves, and has to run to get to his lecture before class starts. He makes it just before the professor, and slides into a seat in the back of the lecture hall, pulling a notebook out of his bag, and balancing his coffee cup rather precariously on his knee. 

Everyone but Duro was surprised when Agron declared a Classics major – although nothing had beat the day when Spartacus announced that he was majoring in Women’s and Gender Studies. Gannicus had hinted that he was just doing it to get laid, and Spartacus had hit him over the head with a heavily annotated copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s _Vindication on the Rights of Woman_ , and rugby tackled him until he apologized. 

People had been just as confused when Agron announced that he was going to major in Classics, until Agron rolled his eyes, started talking about pederasty and homosocial culture, and also that there was a class you could take where the professor helped you build shields and spears and then everyone re-enacted the Trojan War. There wasn’t too much confusion after that. 

In class this semester, they’re studying Aeschylus and the Oresteia, and his professor also teaches drama classes, so there’s a lot of dramatic monologuing, and props. Agron’s favourite lectures are the ones when the professor gets the TA to help him act out all of the stabbings. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket halfway through his professor’s dramatic re-enactment of Clytemnestra stabbing Agamemnon, and he wriggles until he can tug it out of the pocket of his sweats. It’s Crixus, with the time Agron is supposed to show up to Naevia’s life-drawing class and take his clothes off, as well as a long string of threats warning him of exactly what Crixus will do to him if he doesn’t take this seriously. 

Agron rolls his eyes and fires off a reply, shoving his phone back into his pocket to join in the discussion on Clytemnestra’s feminist leanings. 

+

After class, Agron buys a turkey sandwich in the canteen, and takes it out onto the quad, where Spartacus is slumped on a bench, drinking Powerade and highlighting _The Feminine Mystique_. He drops down onto the bench beside Spartacus, who grunts at him a little bit, and turns a page. 

“Did you get a text from Crixus about when you’re modelling for Naevia’s class?” 

Spartacus nods. “Yeah, Wednesday. You?” 

“I’m doing it tomorrow,” Agron says, and shoves half his sandwich in his mouth, and leers at him. 

Spartacus sighs. “Try and keep it PG, okay? Crixus will pummel you if you don’t.” 

Agron spreads his hands. “I’ll be good!” 

Spartacus shakes his head, fondly, and reaches over to steal a handful of chips from Agron’s bag. Agron swings his fist out to gut-punch him, and Spartacus ducks, laughing and dropping potato chips everywhere while they tussle. They squabble – like children, Naevia is always saying – until someone coughs above their heads, and Spartacus straightens up like a dog at obedience school when he sees that it’s Mira. 

Agron rolls his eyes at them, at the actual fucking blush on Spartacus’ cheeks, and settles back in to eat his turkey sandwich. 

“Boys,” Mira says, smiling at Spartacus. “Naevia told me that you’re going to be doing some modelling.” 

Spartacus splutters, and Agron laughs. “Oh yeah, baby,” he says, shaking his shoulders. “You want a free show?” 

Spartacus whacks him in the thigh with his copy of _The Feminine Mystique_. Agron yelps, and Spartacus gives him the ‘please-behave-I-really-want-Mira-to-like-me’ look.

Mira just laughs at them, a bright sound that makes Spartacus look up like a lovesick puppy again, and Agron roll his eyes at the two of them so hard that they almost fall out of his head. 

“Have fun with that, then.” Mira says. And then she smirks. “You know, Nasir is in that class, too.” 

Agron shrugs. Nasir is friends with Naevia, and has met Mira through Naevia, and all Agron knows about him is that both Naevia and Mira think he’s the cutest thing in the world. Mira’s looking at him like her announcement that Nasir is in the class is supposed to mean something, and when he shrugs at her again, she sighs and pokes him in the stomach.

“Lay off the turkey sandwiches, maybe.”

Agron squawks at her and Spartacus dissolves into laughter at his side. Mira walks away, hips swinging, and Agron shoves Spartacus off the bench. 

He finishes his sandwich, grabs his bag, and waves at Spartacus before heading home to the apartment he and Duro share on the edge of campus. It’s a shitty two-story walk-up, that’s a lot larger on the inside than it looks on the outside, and Agron loves it, because it’s theirs. 

+

Agron came to the city first, and Duro joined him a year and a half later, after their parents died, bringing boxes of cookbooks and DVDs and horror movie posters. He moved into the spare room in the apartment, and quickly filled every corner of Agron’s life with loud laughter and good food. 

Duro is stretched out on the couch they found on the side of the road one night two summers ago and dragged home when Agron lets himself into their apartment. He’s got a Spiderman comic draped over his face, and when Agron picks it up there’s a long streak of flour across his forehead. 

Duro goes to culinary school in the city and works at a local bakery to pay for school and rent, leaving for work at three in the morning to bake bread, and returning with flour on his face at noon to nap for a couple of hours before heading out to class to learn about sharp knives and delicate French pastries. Most nights he brings home delicious food, and if Agron doesn’t laugh at his chef’s hat, he even shares it. 

Agron shakes his shoulder gently to wake him up, and he blinks at Agron sleepily and slaps at his brothers’ hand when Agron reaches in to rub the flour off his face. 

“Bring anything back from the bakery?” Agron calls over his shoulder as he heads in the kitchen. 

Duro just swears at him, rolling off the couch with a thump. But there’s a cruller on a square of wax paper on the counter, dusted with sugar and cinnamon, because Duro loves him, really. 

Duro shuffles sleepily around their apartment, collecting his stuff for class, and ducks back into the kitchen to grab his thermos from the sink and say goodbye before heading out. Agron is sitting on the kitchen counter, eating his cruller cheerfully and he kicks at Duro’s side as his brother pours himself a thermos-full of coffee. 

“Guess what I’m doing tomorrow.” 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Duro parrots, distractedly. 

“Nude modelling for Naevia’s art class.” 

Duro spills his coffee. “Fucking hell Agron, you realize that that image will haunt me forever, right?” 

Agron just laughs, and Duro slams the door on the way out. 

Agron orders pizza from Duro’s favourite pizza place for dinner to make it up to him, because he promised their mother that he would take care of Duro, and scarring him emotionally is probably not what she had in mind. He even orders the pizza with pineapple on it, because for some reason Duro likes his pizza like that, and only makes fun of him a little bit when it arrives. 

Duro shoves chunks of pineapple down the neck of Agron’s beer bottle when he’s not looking, because he’s a little shit, and Agron taught him well. 

+

The next day, Agron showers after his workout at the gym, and heads to the art building, where he’s meant to be meeting Naevia. She’s standing outside when he gets there, her back to him, talking to one of the most beautiful men Agron has ever seen. He has slim hips, and long hair, and Agron has to look away from the way his fingers are rolling a cigarette before he does something embarrassing. 

He waves awkwardly at Naevia and she brightens and tugs his beanie from his head when he joins them. 

“Agron, this is Nasir,” Naevia says, and of-fucking-course it is. This is what Mira was smirking over. 

Nasir cups a hand around his cigarette and lights it smoothly, a couple of rings, and an arm-ful of leather and silver bracelets gleaming in the afternoon sun as he does so. It’s like the cartoons Agron used to watch with Duro, where Road Runner drops an anvil on Wile E. Coyote’s head, because Nasir smiles, and Agron forgets how to breathe.

They shake hands, and Agron grips Nasir’s warm palm a little too hard and smiles a little too wildly. Nasir’s eyes drop to his dimples, and he takes a long drag from his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing. Agron’s heart flutters, and he sticks his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid, like propose. 

Naevia rolls her eyes at both of them, and takes Agron’s arm to lead him inside. Nasir nods at them as they go, blowing a streak of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and Agron is so, so fucked. 

The art classroom has a small dais in the centre of a number of easels. The walls are covered with chipped corkboard, on which a number of photographs and sketches are pinned. There are already a few students milling around the room, pulling large, fresh sheets of paper out of their portfolios, and taking out charcoal and pencils and erasers. 

And finally, there’s a paint splattered stereo in the corner of the classroom, that’s playing some sort of jangly folk music. Naevia pushes him past it when he stops to listen. 

“Bob Dylan, you troglodyte,” she hisses when he asks her who the singer is, and shoves him into a make-shift dressing room in the corner of the classroom, that’s really just two sheets slung lopsidedly on a clothesline. There’s a robe in it, that Naevia points at before jerking the curtain closed to preserve his dignity while he changes. 

Dignity, that he will be losing very shortly, when he strips for an hour so that the class can draw him. The entire class, including Nasir. It’s possible that Agron should have thought this through. 

It’s a little bit nerve-wracking, but at the same time, Agron has never been one to back down from a challenge. In fact, he’s usually the one who jumps at a challenge feet first, shouts in its face, and stomps on its toes. 

He’s tying the robe with mostly steady fingers when Naevia opens the curtain to check on him. 

“Good, you’re done,” she says, and pulls him over to meet the professor, and then leaves him to set up her own easel. 

The professor is an older, serious man, with dark skin and a sly smile. His hand shake is warm and firm, though, and he has a soothing way of speaking that calms Agron’s nerves. 

There’s a schedule to the class: ten minutes for gesture drawing, a series of quick poses to warm up the hands, and then two longer poses of ten minutes each, a quick break, and finally one longer pose that the professor asks if he’ll be able to hold for half an hour. He instructs Agron on how to stand in contrapposto, a relaxed pose, with all his weight on one foot. Like David, the professor says, and slaps him a little bit on the shoulder while Agron flushes. 

The professor guides him to the dais beneath the inquisitive eyes of the class, and slides another CD into the stereo before they start. Agron looks up sharply when the soaring sound of Edith Piaf comes floating out of the speakers. His mother used to listen to Edith Piaf when she was cooking. Agron has fond memories of playing with Duro, licking batter from the bowl, and watching his mother move gracefully around the kitchen as she hummed along with the music. 

The music calms him down, and when the professor gestures at him, he steps up and takes off his robe without any fanfare. It’s awkward for a few minutes, as he makes up poses that will make his muscles stand out in sharp relief beneath the lights the professor has positioned above the dais. But as he settles into his first long pose, the music shifts to something a little calmer and sadder and when he glances around the room, everyone is bent over their easels, working their arms in long ovals. 

They take a five-minute break in the middle of the class so everyone can pin fresh sheets of paper to their easels and Agron can stretch his muscles a little bit. 

Naevia and Nasir are sitting towards the back of the class, and Naevia nods at him and gives him a thumbs up when he catches her eye. Beside her, Nasir is frowning at his easel. His hair is curling at his temples and falling out of the messy bun he had tied it up into. There’s charcoal smudged high on his cheekbone, and Agron wants to lick it off. Instead, he forces himself to look away. 

The professor changes the music again, to something soothing and electronic, and Agron glances back at Nasir and Naevia before settling into his final pose. There’s another student beside Nasir who he hadn’t noticed earlier, a dark-skinned young man, with tattoos and a fringed scarf tied around his neck. He’s got a smile like a spark, and Nasir is laughing with him. Something clenches in Agron’s stomach, something sad and heavy, and he swallows and ignores it, moving to stand in contrapposto as he was directed, relishing the stretch in his leg muscles. 

(Across the classroom, Nasir chokes a little, quietly, and flips Naevia off when she smirks at him. In front of the room, Agron stares straight ahead, and doesn’t notice the scuffle.)

It’s strangely calming, standing naked in the middle of the room. The music is a low purr in the background beneath the buzzing scratch of pencil on paper. Agron looks over at Nasir only once during the long pose, at how his hair is coming undone and his tongue is caught between his teeth. He’s frowning at his easel again, holding a nub of charcoal between long, elegant fingers, and Agron swallows dryly, and looks away. 

When the time is over, the students stretch behind their easels and Agron, feeling suddenly awkward, pulls the robe over himself, and ties it at his waist. He changes in the makeshift little dressing room while the class shuffles around the room, pinning their work to the walls and moving slowly from piece to piece. He seeks Naevia out when he’s done changing, and steals his beanie back from her, pulling it down over his hair and slinking after her as she makes a slow circuit of the room. 

It’s weird because the pictures are all of him, totally nude. Some of them have gone for a more abstract style, while others have gone into a truly frightening amount of detail in the genital area. He cringes a little bit when he sees those, and Naevia pats him comfortingly on the arm and leads him away to other students’ work. One of the students was going for a comic book style, and Agron’s been drawn against a dark background, his muscles standing out in stark relief. 

“Duro would like that one,” he murmurs, nudging Naevia. “He likes comics.” 

“He likes Spiderman,” Naevia corrects him. “Not comic book representations of his naked older brother.” 

Agron chuckles and they move on. Nasir is standing at the back of the room, glaring at a set of sketches on the wall and Naevia leaves Agron standing next to him to speak with the professor. Agron stands awkwardly, and then looks up at the sketches on the wall, which are completely fucking stunning. 

They’re done in charcoal, leaving most of the paper clean except for in places where Agron’s cheekbones, or biceps have been defined with dark slashes of black. They’re angry, almost, clearly done with passion, and they’re more interesting than any of the others in the room. Agron is floored. 

After a minute of rapt silence, Nasir clears his throat and glances over at Agron, who is still taking the pictures in. 

“Do you like them?” Nasir asks, and when Agron looks at him his fingers are nervous, rubbing at the charcoal smudges on his forearms, and fiddling with his leather bracelets. 

Agron lets out his breath and nods, emphatically. “I don’t know much about art,” he says, apologetically, “and it’s a little weird because the pictures are all of _me_ , but these are fucking gorgeous. They’re… I don’t know if I can describe it. But they almost look like they’re alive.” 

Next to him, Nasir stiffens and ducks his head. “Thanks,” he mutters, and Agron stares at him. 

“These are yours?” His voice is a little too loud for the art classroom, and Naevia glances over at him from where she’s speaking with the professor. Nasir shrugs bashfully, and tries not to grin when Agron tugs his beanie from his head and says, “ _Shit_ , man,” with feeling. 

“It’s a style I’ve been working with for a couple of months now,” Nasir says, reaching forward to push the sketches straighter on the wall. “I’ve been experimenting with using the charcoal to show strength and power. These are definitely the best ones I’ve done so far, though.” He pushes a hand through his hair and narrows his eyes at the sketches critically. “None of the other models have been so…” He cuts his hands through the air and falls silent, looking a little embarrassed. 

Intrigued, Agron is opening his mouth to question Nasir about what the “other” models had been like when the dark-skinned man from before ducks in between them, throwing an arm over Nasir’s shoulders. 

“Smoke?” He asks Nasir, waving a cigarette at him, and Nasir takes it from him with charcoal-darkened fingers. He gives Agron a small smile before letting himself be led away. Something in Agron’s gut tightens and he goes and finds Naevia, dropping a heavy arm over her shoulders.

“I’m in love,” he tells her and she pats his head. 

“I know, honey, I know.” 

+

When Duro comes home from class Agron’s lying on their couch, a hand over his face, and thinking about the angles of Nasir’s jaw. Duro takes one look at his older brother, and sighs, heading straight for the beer they’ve got in the fridge. 

He joins Agron on the couch, shoving his legs off one side so that there’s room for him to sit down, and twists the cap off a beer – a cheap, local IPA they both favour – and hands it to Agron. 

Agron takes a long swallow of the beer, and puts his hand back over his face when Duro gives him a knowing look. 

“Are you gonna tell me about him, or not?” Duro asks, after a long moment of silence. Agron just groans.

“Who says there’s a ‘him’?” He mutters, and Duro leans forward to smack him in the calf. 

“You have your pining face on,” Duro says, “The one that means you’re about to do something really fucking stupid. Like try to learn to play the guitar so you can serenade him. Or get a tattoo.” 

“Says the man who nearly burned our house down making crème brûlée in an attempt to sleep with his professor.” 

Duro shoves at Agron, who grins and shoves him right back. “Fuck you! That was different. First of all, it _worked_ , and Auctus and I have been sleeping together for four months now – don’t make that face, I’m a grown up, I’m allowed to have boyfriends – and I didn’t ‘nearly burn the house down’. All I did was use a blow torch in the kitchen. And you overreacted and nearly ruined my dessert.” 

“A blow torch!” 

“It was crème brûlée! You’re supposed to blowtorch it! That’s where the ‘brûlée’ comes from, asshole!” 

Agron rolls his eyes, and Duro smacks him. They wrestle for a minute before Agron sighs, hugely, and says: “His name is Nasir. And he’s so fucking beautiful, Duro, I swear to god.” 

“I’m already regretting this conversation,” Duro says, reaching for Agron’s beer. “Trying to be compassionate with you is always emotionally scarring.” 

“Fuck you,” Agron says, easily, sitting up to take his beer back. Duro elbows him in the sternum. 

“So… beautiful, huh?” 

Agron sighs, and makes a face, and sends Duro to get another beer.

+

The next time Agron sees Nasir is in the café. He’s just gotten out of class, and he’s running on about three hours of sleep. He knows he looks pretty ragged, because Naevia took one look at him and put an extra shot of espresso in his latte, and handed him a cinnamon chip scone ‘on the house’. 

He’s wandering through the crowded café, looking for somewhere he can sit and eat his scone and drink his latte and muster the energy needed to get through his next class and get home so he can sleep. Nasir’s sitting in the corner of the café, at a table by himself, with a sketchbook on his knee, and a handful of pens on the table in front of him. Agron stares at him for a minute through the crowd, at the way he’s sticking the tip of his tongue out of his mouth in concentration, the batik scarf wrapped around his neck, the earbuds… He’s still beautiful. 

Agron’s too tired to worry about social conventions and he picks his way across the café, stopping by Nasir’s table, and waving. Nasir looks startled, and he pulls his earbuds out to greet Agron. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Agron asks. “Everywhere else is taken, half the campus is in here, I think; the rain, you know…” 

Nasir smiles a little at him, and nods. Agron more or less collapses into the chair across from him, and Nasir surveys him over the top of his sketchbook. 

“You look a little…” He waves a hand at Agron’s person, and Agron sighs. 

“I didn’t sleep until five this morning.” He admits, biting into his still warm - god bless Naevia - cinnamon scone. He moans a little bit over it, and Nasir’s eyes widen. “God, this is fucking delicious, you want some?” 

Nasir shakes his head, but he’s still staring, so Agron swipes a hand over his face to dislodge whatever crumbs or pen marks he’s probably got going on. 

“What are you drawing?” He asks, and Nasir flushes a little bit. 

“I’m working on a series for my final project this semester, just practicing some techniques for it.” He pulls the sketchbook away from his chest, and flips through it, before flattening out the pages and putting it down on the table between them, so Agron can see. The page is full of hands, drawn from different angles, in different sizes, and Agron touches the palm of one of them carefully. 

“That’s so fucking cool.” He says, appreciatively, and Nasir fidgets. “Man, I wish I could draw.” 

“Everyone can draw,” Nasir says confidently, flicking his sketchbook closed authoritatively. “If you can hold a pencil and draw a line on a sheet of paper, you can draw.” 

“I wish I could draw _well_ ,” Agron elaborates, and Nasir grins at him. 

They stay for a bit longer, before going their separate ways, Nasir to the art studios and Agron to his lecture. The conversation flows easily about films and music and that accident on Fifth Street the other day, and the fucking rain – it's nearly spring, when is it going to get warm? Agron tells Nasir about Duro and Nasir tells him about how he and Naevia met in a sculpture class and bonded over a mutual dislike of the professor. 

Naevia leers at Agron when they leave together and he flips her off behind Nasir’s back, then waves awkwardly outside the café and watches Nasir walk off, the metal studs on his leather jacket catching the afternoon sunlight. 

+

Agron models for Nasir and Naevia’s art class twice more. The second time he does it, he meets Castus, the art student who he remembers had distracted Nasir the first time Agron had modelled for the class. Agron hates him, immediately, which is probably unfair, because Nasir and Naevia seem to like him, but when they’re introduced Castus has an arm draped easily across Nasir’s neck and he keeps stealing the cigarette from between Nasir’s lips. 

They all go for coffee after the class, and Agron feels off balance the entire time, still a little self-conscious from the whole taking his clothes off to be scrutinized by strangers thing, and the way Castus sits beside Nasir and name drops Rousseau and Dubuffet with ease. They lose Agron the second they start talking about art, but he stays because Nasir talks with his hands when he’s passionate about something, and he keeps looking at Agron like if he smiles enough at Agron he’ll understand the argument Nasir is making about colour theory. (He doesn’t, but he smiles back, every time.) 

The last time Agron models for the class he may or may not hit the gym the day before, and avoid carbs before heading to the art studio. 

“This is a disturbing new development in your infatuation with this guy,” Duro says, when Agron declines a slice of pepperoni pizza. “I may need to meet him.”

Agron just throws a slice of cantaloupe at his brother’s face and heads to the bus stop to catch the bus to campus. 

He’s almost gotten used to this modelling gig. It’s not as nerve-wracking anymore, and it’s becoming interesting to see the way that people’s perceptions of his body change from week to week. What’s most interesting, always, is Nasir’s work. Agron always makes a point of pausing in front of it the longest, tracing the angles and the curves of the charcoal. He can almost read the work: he understands the places where Nasir is still trying to work out a specific style.

“I’m interested in heroes,” Nasir says quietly when he finds Agron standing in front of his work during the final critique. “You know how in action films, you always get that hero shot, where like, the victorious gladiator stands triumphant on top of a pile of bodies? I’m sort of trying to explore the ordinary hero. The everyday hero, you know, the superman without any super powers.” He pauses, and Agron looks at him and nods at him to go on. “I like the idea that ordinary people can save the world. You always hear about it in the papers after some horrific disaster. You know, the mother who lifted the car off her baby, the teenagers who saved a drowning man, or the banker who opened his home to someone who had lost theirs…” He shrugs and reaches out to his pictures to smear a dark stripe of charcoal into Agron’s sketched cheekbones. “You’re a good model for it. I’m glad you volunteered to model for us.” 

Agron’s cheeks split half apart with the strength of his smile. “I’m glad too,” he says, and they’re halfway to having a moment that could potentially end in some kind of kissing, or at least a date, when the professor appears at Nasir’s elbow to critique his sketches, and Nasir straightens up and puts his serious face on. Agron watches for a minute and then slinks away to find Naevia. 

“We were having a _moment_ ,” he laments, and she rolls her eyes and drags him off to the café with her to eat carrot cake and drink milky tea. 

\+ 

Now that he isn’t taking his clothes off in front of Nasir and the other art students on a weekly basis, Agron rarely sees Nasir anymore, and it’s more or less destroying his soul. (Duro laughs at him and calls him a drama queen, but Duro recently spent half the night making a vat of chicken noodle soup for his boyfriend, so he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on.) 

They cross paths in the café once, but the café is packed and Agron is very nearly late for an exam, and Nasir has a huge portfolio under one arm and looks harried, so there isn’t any time for anything beyond a smile of recognition and a despairing sigh on Agron’s part as he watches Nasir walk away. 

He thinks he sees Nasir one night at the dive bar near campus that he and Spartacus hit up sometimes, but the lights were so dim and he was already three sheets to the wind so it could have just as easily been another man with hair that shone even in the low lights and the jawbone of a Greek god. 

Agron’s all but lost hope, and is considering resorting to desperate measures when Crixus asks Naevia to marry him on their third anniversary. She says, yes, of course, and Crixus spends three whole days walking around with a ridiculous smile on his face, and Agron breaks his pact to always give Crixus shit because Naevia is so damn happy, and Agron fucking loves weddings. 

They throw the lovebirds a party, because this is what you do when two of your best friends buy each other expensive jewellery and look at each other like they hung the moon in the night sky. Agron volunteers his house, because he lives off campus and his neighbours are pretty tolerant about the noise. Duro knows Naevia and Crixus, too, because he trains at the campus gym sometimes, and Naevia is a sweetheart and everybody loves her. 

In between shoving furniture out of the way to make something vaguely resembling a dance floor and stealing slivers of fondant from the ‘congratulations on your engagement’ cupcakes Duro is baking, Agron makes Naevia promise that she’ll invite Nasir. He dresses a little more nicely than he would otherwise, and when Naevia and Crixus arrive – hand in hand and fucking beaming – Naevia gives him a once over and a thumbs up and hands him the bottle of lethal and expensive gin that she brought and commands that he make her a gin and tonic. 

The apartment is full of people when Nasir arrives, and Agron is passing through the kitchen in search of another beer when he sees him and walks straight into the door frame. Duro, who is leaning against the kitchen counter with a guy who looks old enough to be his father (and they will be having a conversation about that, later, when Agron’s brain has enough room to deal with anything beyond how fucking good Nasir looks) laughs at him riotously, and Agron steals his beer as payback and moves towards Nasir, drawn like a moth to flame. 

Agron’s had a couple of drinks already, but he could swear that Nasir is actually glowing. He’s also wearing a waistcoat, which should really just not be allowed, because it does these inappropriate things to Nasir’s hips, and also Agron’s groin. Nasir has a scarf on, yet another one from an apparently endless collection, and this one is light gray and looks soft to the touch. He’s pulled his hair away from his face, and Agron wants to lick his stubble and pull Nasir into his room and never let him leave. 

He comes to an ungainly halt in front of Nasir, and, losing control of his instincts entirely says, “You’re here!” and hugs him. 

Nasir is a full head shorter than Agron is, and his chin juts sharply into Agron’s chest. He smells woody, like fine cologne, and Agron releases him abruptly. Nasir’s eyes are dancing, and he holds up a six-pack that Agron hadn’t even noticed that he was carrying. 

“I’m glad to see you too – where can I put these?” 

Agron leads him to the kitchen, which Duro and Auctus have thankfully vacated. Spartacus is there, speaking heatedly to a law student whose name is (Agron thinks) Laeta, while Mira holds his hand and looks on fondly. Agron pulls two beers from the pack and shoves the rest into the fridge, which is full of alcohol and the remains of the cupcakes Duro had been passing around earlier. 

He uncaps a beer and hands it to Nasir, who is looking around the kitchen with wide, interested eyes. 

“You live here with your brother?” He asks, clinking bottles with Agron and taking a deep swig that does wonders for the line of his throat. 

“Duro, yeah.” Agron says. “He’s around somewhere with his boyfriend. He goes to the culinary institute in the city, that why we’ve got all the cookbooks.” He points with the end of his beer bottle and Nasir nods. 

“I was wondering about those. You don’t seem like the cooking type.” 

Agron grins. “I’m hopeless at it. You wouldn’t look at Duro and think he’s a chef though, either. He’s got dreads, and he goes to class wearing these beat-up Misfits hoodies every day,” Agron shakes his head. “He’s a great cook, though. He takes after my mom – she loved to cook. She used to make this beef stew that was made of liquid heaven, or something.” 

Nasir laughs, hiding his wide smile behind the neck of his beer bottle, and Agron beams at him. They stand for a while, until Spartacus starts making noise about Foucault, and Nasir asks where Naevia is. 

“I haven’t had the chance to congratulate her, yet,” he says, and Agron leads him out of the kitchen, into the mess of people in his apartment. They get separated quickly, Agron losing Nasir to a crowd of people near the speakers, where Lugo has taken over DJing duties and refuses to stop playing Macklemore. 

He’s looking for Nasir when he runs into Crixus, who has the look on his face he gets right before he punches someone, and Agron gets drafted into fight-diffusing duty for the sake of the walls of his apartment, along with Donar.

He manages to talk Crixus out of beating up the idiot freshman who made the mistake of grabbing Naevia’s ass, and turns to find Nasir. There are too many people, though, to have a meaningful conversation, and he only sees him in flashes throughout the night, taking in his fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle, or the way his lips shine after downing shots with Naevia and Mira. He catches him dancing with Naevia at one point, under Crixus’ watchful eyes, but has to look away from the easy rhythm of his hips and the way his eyes look when he laughs. 

The night goes quickly: people start leaving at around one, leaving an unholy mess that Agron will deal with in the morning, and he’s just trying to purge the image of his younger brother dragging his boyfriend into his bedroom from his mind forever, when he catches sight of Nasir’s hair over the back of the couch. There are still a few people dancing to some trippy sort of trance music – Gannicus and Saxa, mainly – and Agron walks around the couch and crouches beside Nasir, smiling fondly. Nasir’s eyes are shut, and his hair is a mess – Mira and Naevia’s doing, no doubt – and Agron is head over fucking heels for him. 

“Nasir?” He shakes his shoulder gently, and smiles when Nasir huffs and tries to bury his face into the arm of the couch. “Nasir, come on, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” 

Nasir cracks an eye open and glares. “Why?” he asks, and Agron bites his lips to keep from pinching his cheek. 

“Because you’re drunk,” Agron says, patiently. 

“Yeah, well,” Nasir says, “we can’t all be built like oak trees.” 

Agron laughs out loud this time, and stands. “My room is just down the hall. You can crash there for the night.”

That gets Nasir to open both of his eyes. He straightens himself up and pushes Agron away. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he says, and his words are mostly clear. “I am not that kind of boy.” 

Agron rolls his eyes. “Nasir, I’m not trying to get into your pants. It’s just that you’re drunk, and you live half an hour from campus by bus. And the last bus ran an hour ago, and my bed is more comfortable than the couch.” 

Nasir stares at him for a full minute before relenting. “Fine,” he says, and tries to stand, but sits down again, abruptly, shutting his eyes. 

“Will you kill me if I carry you to the bedroom?” Agron asks, gently. 

“Yes,” Nasir says, balefully. “With my mind.” 

“Okay, then,” Agron says, and scoops Nasir up into his arms, bridal style. Nasir protests for about three seconds, and then quiets, pressing his face into Agron’s chest. His breath is warm, and Agron hopes he can’t hear how loud his heart is beating. 

It’s blissfully quiet in Agron’s room, and he deposits Nasir in the middle of his bed. He heads back to the kitchen to pull a Gatorade from the fridge, tells the remaining guests – good friends, mostly – to let themselves out, and heads back to his room. He digs out a bottle of aspirin from his gym bag and hands two of them and the bottle of Gatorade to Nasir, who gives him a very small smile as he swallows the pills and downs some of the Gatorade. 

In order to keep himself busy, and his hands off the gorgeous, drunk art student in his bed, Agron kneels and pulls Nasir’s shoes off one by one. He’s wearing mismatched socks, and Agron’s heart swells. When he’s done with that, he sneaks another look at Nasir, who’s finished his Gatorade and is flopped back on the bed, one arm over his eyes, the other pulling at the scarf wound around his neck.

“Let me help you,” Agron says, quietly, and he moves up the bed to untangle to scarf from Nasir’s long hair (which is slightly sweaty, but still silky to the touch) and the necklaces he has around his neck. 

“This is so soft,” he murmurs, putting the scarf on his desk, and from the bed Nasir hums and says: 

“Woolen silk, from India.” He opens his eyes and smiles at the look on Agron’s face. “Amani, my sister, is a designer. She always sends me samples of things she thinks I’d like.” 

“She has good taste,” Agron says. “The scarf looked good on you.” 

Nasir huffs out a laugh. “Flattery,” he mutters, pulling a little bit at the necklaces he’s wearing. “You’re always saying nice things. I never know what to do when you compliment me.” 

“Do you want the necklaces off, too?” Agron asks around his smile, and Nasir shakes his head. 

“I sleep with them on.” 

“Right.” Nasir is still mostly clothed, although he’s lost his waistcoat somewhere throughout the course of the night. The Henley he’s wearing is riding up on his hips and Agron needs to leave before he does something that will make Nasir stop smiling at him in that soft way. “Okay. Do you need anything else?”

Nasir squints at Agron. “Where are you going to sleep?” 

Agron shrugs. “The couch works for me.” 

“But I’m not allowed to sleep there,” Nasir says, slowly.

Agron grins. “You’re a guest.” 

Nasir rolls his eyes and then wriggles his shoulders to scoot to one side on the bed. “It’s your bed,” he says, “you can stay here, too. This is all your fault anyway.” 

Agron pauses in the middle of untying his shoes and trying to contain his victory dance. “What, you being drunk is my fault?” 

“Yes,” Nasir says, rolling back over to glare at Agron, who sits down on the bed gingerly, as far as possible from Nasir. “You walked into my art class, and you fucking _smiled_ at me, and you wore _that_ ,” he gestures forcefully at the soft, blue sweater Agron has been wearing all night, “and I had to get drunk just to handle being in the same room as you.” 

Agron freezes. “Nasir…” he begins, quietly. 

“Shut up,” Nasir mutters, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He rolls over forcefully, wrapping his arms around himself. “And if you try anything in the middle of the night, I’ll punch your dick off.” 

Agron grins at his back and flicks the light off. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

\+ 

By the morning, in true romantic comedy fashion, Nasir is tucked beneath one of Agron’s arms. He’s warm and heavy and Agron hopes he doesn’t punch him. 

Nasir wakes up slowly, blinking back into awareness beneath heavy lids. His hair has curled from sweat and sleep and he pushes it out of his face, and looks at Agron, whose face probably looks as adoring as he feels, due to the abashed face Nasir makes. 

“Sorry about last night,” Nasir mutters, pulling away from Agron like they hadn’t just literally woken up in each other’s arms. “I get stupid when I get drunk.” 

Agron shakes his head. “You were fine,” he assures him, “although you did compare me to an oak tree at one point.” 

Nasir grins a little bit and Agron grins back, and it’s easy, comfortable, until there’s a heavy thud against the shared wall between Duro and Agron’s bedrooms, and what sounds like a muffled moan. Agron throws a shoe at the wall, because he will not let the knowledge that his little brother has sex ruin this morning. Duro shouts at him through the wall and there’s another thud, and then some laughter, and Agron throws his other shoe. 

“Do you want breakfast?” He asks Nasir, who’s watching him with a smile on his face. “There’s a great place down the street. I’d make you something here but if I have to listen to my brother getting laid I might try to use the toaster to set myself on fire.” 

Nasir laughs and gets up, straightening himself up and reaching for his shoes. “Breakfast sounds good,” he says, “My treat though, for invading your apartment and calling you a tree.” 

Agron protests a bit, but Nasir is stubborn, and they both splash water on their faces and try to make themselves somewhat presentable before heading out. Agron thumps on Duro’s door before they leave, and gets a very much not muffled moan in response, that forces him to clap his hands over his ears and retreat, while Nasir laughs at him.

There really is a great little mom-and-pop diner down the road that Agron loves. The waitresses don’t bat an eye at their rumpled, sleep creased state, and they bring coffee as soon as Nasir and Agron sit down.

“I like it here,” Nasir says, running a finger down the side of the laminated menus they’d been given. 

“They do the best greasy breakfast in town,” Agron assures him, and Nasir smiles. 

He’s a little different in the morning. A little less sharp, but a little more shy. He always holds himself so carefully, but his shoulders have relaxed and there is a constant, if tentative smile around his lips. Agron smiles back when he catches Nasir watching him over the top of his menu and Nasir blushes and ducks his head. 

“You’re really beautiful, you know,” Agron says without thinking, reaching out to tug down Nasir’s menu so he can see his face. Nasir flushes even harder and jumps, suddenly skittish when their waitress clears her throat and presses her hands to her heart, obviously delighted to have intruded on Agron’s declaration.

Agron bites his lip to keep from giggling hysterically, and grins at Nasir, who looks like he’s holding in helpless giggles as well. 

“Can I have the lumberjack breakfast, please?” He says, politely. “Eggs over medium, sausage and rye toast.” 

“Of course you can.” The waitress says, and she beams at him as she writes down his order. “And what can I get you, sweetheart?” 

Nasir flushes under her attention, and asks for a poppy seed bagel and scrambled eggs. 

“Any meat?” The waitress asks, and Agron chokes on his coffee. Nasir glares at him, and explains that he’s a vegetarian before kicking Agron under the table. 

“I’m never going to be able to come here again,” Nasir grouses, and Agron grins at him. 

“That’s a shame,” he says. “They do a really good breakfast.” 

Nasir just ducks his head and focuses on adding cream and sugar to his coffee. 

Breakfast, when it arrives, is greasy and delicious, and Nasir laughs easily and only gets skittish when Agron tries to hold his hand in their squabble for the check. They drink too much coffee, and go back to Agron’s apartment afterwards, because Nasir’s realized that his waistcoat is still missing. They find it tucked into the couch cushions and Nasir buttons it up over his wrinkled shirt and lets Agron walk him back down the stairs to the bus stop. 

They’re the only ones waiting for the bus and Agron stands with Nasir until it arrives, leaning in at the last moment for a kiss when their eyes catch and hold for a beat longer than usual. Nasir stops him, though, with a finger to his lips and a caged look in his eyes. 

“Agron,” he begins, while Agron pulls away and reorganizes the world in his mind, because he thought everything was tilting one way and it hurts like a bitch to realize that it’s not tilting that way at all. “Agron, I think you’re amazing.” Nasir says, a little desperate, as the bus rounds the corner. “And I like you, I really do, I’m just so… so fucking overwhelmed by all of this.” He waves a hand to indicate Agron’s everything, and Agron takes another step back, and then forward again when Nasir starts pulling at his own hair. “I just, I just need some time to figure myself out, okay?” 

Agron nods, and assures him that it’s all okay, even though it’s breaking his heart and Nasir looks torn and wretched. 

“Can I… I’ll call you.” Nasir says, and it’s a statement, at least, of intent. Agron nods, and smiles and waves until the bus takes Nasir away from him and then he kicks the bench at the bus stop and hurts his foot. 

“Fuck,” he says to nobody. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” 

Duro and Auctus are cleaning up the kitchen when he gets back up to the apartment and Duro takes one look at him and shoves his sponge at Auctus in favour of wrapping his arms around Agron. 

“He’s a dick.” Duro says from where his face is mashed against Agron’s shoulder. “He’s a gigantic, flaming bag of dicks. Do you want me to kill everything he loves?” 

Agron has to laugh at that. “You don’t even know his name.” 

“Nasir; Naevia told me last night.” Agron sighs heavily and leans against the kitchen counter. Duro follows him, looking worried. “I’m pretty good with a cleaver, do you want me to rattle him a little bit?” 

“No! No, fucking hell, Duro, does culinary school turn people into serial killers or is that just you?” 

“That’s just Duro,” Auctus says, but he sounds fond and Agron nods approvingly at the way he’s keeping his eyes on Duro’s fidgety movements. 

“There will be no threatening Nasir with sharp knives,” Agron tells Duro. “He said he’d call me.” 

That seems to calm Duro down a little bit, and he takes the sponge back from Auctus. Agron grabs a trash bag to collect the cans in the living room. He and Duro shove the couch back into place while Auctus works some magic over their battered coffee machine and comes back with three cups of coffee that are surprisingly delicious. They spend the rest of the day watching shitty action films on TV, Duro keeping up a running stream of commentary that mostly serves the purpose of distracting Agron from thoughts of Nasir until he excuses himself to go finish his reading for Monday’s classes, and collapses onto a bed that is still rumpled and smells like Nasir. 

Duro checks on him before he goes to sleep that night and confiscates Agron’s phone on the grounds that staring at it won’t make Nasir text him any quicker, and Agron punches him in the shoulder, but only lightly, because Duro’s right. 

In the morning he goes to class, and when he gets back he finds that Duro’s brought him a box of crullers from the bakery, which makes him grin like an idiot, because at least his little brother thinks he’s awesome. 

\+ 

Nasir doesn’t call until the next weekend, by which point Agron has stopped jumping at his phone every time it rings. He doesn’t even check the caller ID this time, just opens his phone and sits bolt upright when he realizes it’s Nasir.

“Agron, thank god.” Nasir blows out a breath, and it crackles across the receiver. “This is incredibly shitty of me, I know, and I meant to call you, but all of my deadlines are coming up, and this week has been hellish, and I’m so fucking stuck on my final project and it’s due in less than a week now, and I really need a model to sketch from, because otherwise I’m never going to get it done, and I know this sucks and I should have called you earlier, but – ” 

“Nasir!” Agron interrupts, swinging his legs off his bed and standing. “Nasir, breathe, it’s okay! Seriously, it’s fine, I’m glad you called at all. What do you need?”

“My final project for my life drawing class,” Nasir says, “I think I told you about some of it…” 

“Everyday heroes,” Agron says. “I remember.” 

“Yeah, that one. It’s just that I had such a good idea and then I got stuck, and I’m cutting it way too close and I really need to get it done.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “And I was hoping that I haven’t irrevocably fucked everything up between us because I would love to draw you again. I did my best work after sketching you in class, and I just…” 

“Yes.” Agron says, already moving to the door. 

“What?” 

“Yes, of course. Whatever you need. When would be best for you?” 

“Uh,” Nasir sounds flustered again and something clatters in the background of his call. “Would it be too presumptuous to say ‘right now’? Because…”

“I’m already out the door,” Agron says, grinning at nothing and pulling the door closed behind him. “Text me your address, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

“Thank you,” Nasir breathes. “Agron, seriously, thank you…”

“Don’t mention it,” Agron says, taking the stairs two at a time. “I’ll see you soon.” 

“Okay,” Nasir says, sounding dazed and he disconnects the call. 

Agron catches a bus to Nasir’s apartment, and spends the entire time fidgeting. He didn’t really think this through: he hasn’t spoken to, or even seen Nasir in a week, and now he’s heading to his home, to take off his clothes and stand still for a couple of hours while Nasir plays the distracted artist. He lets his head fall against the bus window and sighs, giving his body a stern talking to before he gets there. This is Nasir’s moment of need. There’s no time for Agron to be a horny douchebag about it. 

Nasir lives in a tiny studio apartment that’s really just one room, with half a wall delineating the space for his kitchen – which is similarly tiny, and crowded with tins of leaf tea, and fresh fruit and vegetables. His space feels endearingly _Nasir_ : there are canvases in a corner stacked near a window that’s draped with a thin silk scarf to give it the room the illusion of privacy, and that makes the light that filters through reddish and dappled yellow. There are books everywhere, in milk crates, and in stacks by his bed. His sink is a rainbow of paint streaks and clumps of plaster and tea mugs. His bed, shoved in the corner, looks like it’s been hastily made, a rich brocade fabric that looks Middle Eastern to Agron’s uncultured eye, pulled over a lumpy tumult of sheets.

Nasir smiles widely when he opens the door to Agron. He looks every inch the scatter-brained artist. His hair is pulled into a bun that has a pencil sticking out of it, and there’s a slash of graphite just beneath his lips where he must have rubbed his hand while thinking. His hands are stained with ink and charcoal, and he’s wearing a thin t-shirt and low-slung trousers that have flecks of paint all over them. He is, of course, heart-achingly beautiful, and Agron feels oddly brittle when he smiles back. 

Nasir bustles around, plugging his iPod into the stereo in the corner of the room so that it plays, “Bruce Springsteen?” Agron asks, pausing in the middle of pulling off his jacket. 

Nasir just shrugs. “I’m at the point where hearing someone else sing about struggle is the only way I can get shit done. Do you want anything to drink?” 

Nasir is making tea for himself, so Agron accepts a cup of Darjeeling, milky and sweet, and watches Nasir slice strips of mango for them both to eat. 

“Okay,” Nasir says, when they’ve finished with the mango, and he’s finished licking mango juice off his wrist in a thoroughly distracting manner. “The light is best in here.” 

He leads Agron over to the window, and pulls the scarf aside. “We’re on the fourth floor,” he says, “and I don’t think people can see in from the street, but if you’re not comfortable, I have a couple lights that I can rig up. It’s just that the natural light is the best, here, especially at this time of day…” 

“It’s okay,” Agron says, finishing his tea with a long sip and putting the teacup down. “I still don’t really know how to do this modelling thing, though, so you’re going to have to tell me how to stand.” 

“You’re kind of a natural at it,” Nasir says, tugging his easel over from the other side of the room. “I mean, you’ve got the body for it, obviously, all these muscles that are really interesting to draw, and your scar on your…” He touches his chest fleetingly, where Agron’s scar is, and Agron ducks his head and grins. “And I don’t need anything particularly complicated. I’ve sketched out what I want in my head, I just need a model for it, really, and then I’ve got to ink all the pictures and get that shit done, but if I can get the forms down on paper today, I’ll be golden.” He pushes his easel into place and carefully pins a fresh sheet of paper onto it, tucking stray hands behind his ears and eyeing Agron. 

“What I really need is two poses. One sort of contemplative, looking out of the window, and then a sort of classic superhero pose.” He finishes fiddling with his things and looks up at Agron, who has his hands tucked in the pocket of his sweats and is simply watching him. “Uh…” 

“Oh! Right,” Agron laughs, nervously, and reaches for the zipper on his hoodie. Nasir looks away, quickly, and Agron bites back a sigh, undressing quickly while Nasir bustles off for a cigarette. 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” He asks, settling back in and looking very carefully at Agron’s face and not at his body. “I have a fan I can set up if it bugs you.” 

Agron shakes his head. “It’s fine.” 

“Okay, um,” Nasir lights the cigarette with unsteady fingers, and ashes it out over the floor. Agron makes a point of not looking at his fingers. “So one half hour pose at first, if that’s okay. If you could sort of turn towards the window, just like that, yeah, and if you could rest your left arm on the window sill? Perfect, okay, thanks.” 

Nasir falls silent, and Agron falls still, taking stock of his muscles and breathing slowly, in and out and back in, as he looks out over the grey skyline of their city, anything to distract himself from the scratching of Nasir’s pencil across the paper. He had started fitfully, muttering to himself, and lighting another cigarette before falling fully quiet, his hands whispering over the paper as he sketches. 

It seems like an age, and Agron’s arm is growing heavy when Nasir pushes his chair back, and says, “Okay, that’s… thanks.” 

Agron turns around and regrets it immediately. Nasir looks flushed and a good deal calmer than he had been. He stands and stretches, smiling brightly at Agron. “Do you want more tea before the next pose?” He asks, heading for the kitchen area and Agron nods wordlessly, moving around the easel awkwardly to look at what Nasir has done. It’s gloomier than the other pictures, even his profile looks brooding, and Nasir’s sketched in the bare bones of the skyline beyond Agron, which looks dystopic and wrong. Agron takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes. This was probably a bad idea. 

Nasir hands him another cup of Darjeeling, and joins him at the easel. “It’s really good,” Agron says, trying for normal and sounding a little desperate, although Nasir doesn’t seem to notice. 

“You did really good,” Nasir says, quietly. “Just what I needed.” 

They don’t look at each other while Nasir directs Agron how to stand for his next pose. He stands like Superman, muscles flexed and his hands on his hips, feeling a little bit ridiculous, until he catches the shell shocked look on Nasir’s face as he ducks behind his easel. He allows himself a little bit of a smirk at that, and freezes when Nasir says, distracted again: “Your face, hold it like that, that’s perfect, one minute…” 

Agron’s facing Nasir this time, which makes everything infinitely more difficult to bear, because Nasir scrunches his face while he draws and bites his lips and rubs at his nose, getting even more graphite on his face. He keeps glancing at Agron too, to take measurements or something, but each time it makes Agron nervous, and he starts imagining that he can feel the tracks Nasir’s eyes leave. They slide around his shoulders and down his chest, lingering on his scar and his waist, curling back up to his biceps and Agron has to force himself not to shudder. 

He’s trying to create a thesis for his next classics essay to distract himself from Nasir’s eyes when he realizes that the pencil has stopped scratching against the paper. He blinks and looks at Nasir, who is staring at him unabashedly, his pencil frozen in mid air over the page. They stare at each other for a moment that stretches like caramel between them and then Nasir drops his pencil with a clatter on the hardwood floor. 

“Oh, fuck this,” he says, and stands, pushing the easel out of the way and moving towards Agron who just stands there until Nasir gets to where he’s standing and pushes him. He stumbles backwards, hits his shins on the bed and falls down onto the mess of blankets, a grin forming on his lips that only grows as Nasir climbs on top of him, straddles his hips and ducks his head to kiss the grin right off his face. 

The kiss is rushed and sloppy and perfect, and Nasir tastes like tea and faintly like mango, and when he draws back to catch his breath Agron catches him around the biceps and holds him in place. 

“I thought you needed to think about things?” He asks, gently, and Nasir shakes his head, running reverent hands down Agron’s chest. 

“I did think about things, I _was_ thinking about things, but then you came over and decided to go all Clark Kent in front of me...” 

“Decided?” Agron laughs, running his own hands down Nasir’s strong and slim shoulders and settling on his waist, grinning when Nasir’s hips buck forward. “You’re the one who asked me to come here and told me to stand like a superhero.” 

“And you’re so fucking good at it,” Nasir moans and ducks forward again. Agron meets him this time, their mouths clashing hot and already familiar. Nasir groans into the kiss and pulls back again to drag his shirt over his head, his necklaces dropping heavily against his chest. Agron tangles his fingers in the chains and presses his hands to Nasir’s sides, trying to span his entire waist, and Nasir shudders. 

“God, you...” he says, shaking his head and pushing his hands into Agron’s hair. “You make my art make sense.” 

It’s Agron’s turn to groan at that, and he surges upwards and rolls them over, pinning Nasir and mouthing at his collarbones while Nasir writhes beneath him. 

\+ 

Agron wakes up the next morning to cool sheets. He panics for half a minute before he hears clattering in the kitchen, the whistle of Nasir’s kettle and the sound of plates clinking together. He sits up, and can’t help the ridiculous grin on his face when Nasir comes out of the kitchen, balancing cups of tea and two plates of fresh fruit and toast on a wooden tray. He’s not wearing anything and he pauses at the foot of the bed, surveying Agron with a soft smile. 

“Your idea of a morning-after breakfast is a lot classier than mine,” Agron says, grinning, and Nasir puts the tray down carefully, whips the sheets out of the way and crawls his way back up Agron’s body. 

The tea, when they get to it, is cold, but worth it. Agron stays in Nasir’s bed for the rest of the day, flipping through the art books Nasir has scattered around, and watching him draw. He learns the cut of Nasir’s hips and the sensitive places on his neck and the small of his back and they order pizza for dinner and he answers the door in his boxers with half of an ink drawing across his chest.

After they eat he texts Duro: _No knives needed. Not coming home tonight._ And gets back, _tell him if he breaks your heart i will come after him with a paring knife_ and Agron laughs and laughs. 

\+ 

They go to Nasir’s final art show together, on a double date with Crixus and Naevia that Agron and Crixus refuse to acknowledge is a double date, despite the fact that they all went out to dinner beforehand. 

The show is crowded, and there’s wine and finger food. Nasir is fidgety, and Agron holds his hand and plies him with white wine and makes him stand in front of his sketches and embarrasses him by posing next to the sketches and waiting until people notice that he’s the one in the pictures.

It’s all a resounding success, though: everyone loves Nasir’s art, and Agron’s so proud of him he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Nasir gets a little tipsy on the white wine and clings to Agron, and when a middle-aged woman and her husband ask if they can buy a couple of pieces for their art gallery he nods and shakes and kisses Agron right in the middle of the art show, holding on to his shoulders and ignoring the catcalls they’re getting. 

Agron just beams at him. They all go out for drinks afterwards, taking over one corner of their favourite bar near campus, and Nasir sits next to Agron and inexplicably becomes really good friends with Lugo, and is dragged off halfway through the night by Duro, who threatens him half-heartedly and then hugs him and brings him back to Agron. 

They go back to Nasir’s place, because it’s closer, and Agron kisses Nasir in the doorway, and Nasir tastes like shitty beer and he bites at Agron’s lips because he realized that Agron likes that and has since proceeded to use this information to get anything he wants. Nasir tugs him into bed and sprawls beneath him, hazily drunk and laughing, and Agron undresses him carefully, and kisses his way down his chest. 

+

Later, in their bed, Agron whispers, “I love you,” and Nasir shudders and comes apart beneath his hands.


End file.
